


Language of Noises

by Estrella3791



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, I LOVE MRS HUDSON, Written before Series 4, and Molly, i love them, oh sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 07:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10485798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estrella3791/pseuds/Estrella3791
Summary: So... It's confusing. There are some parts where even I am not sure what I was trying to say. Hopefully it's not too bad.Enjoy!!! :)





	

221B Baker Street was, usually, a very calm, quiet place. That is, it was calm and quiet if you disregarded the shouts, gunshots, groans, thumps, muffled screaming, pacing footsteps, and violin music which emanated from the flat on a daily basis. Mrs. Martha Hudson knew what all of those noises meant. It was like a language, a language of noises, and she was fluent – at least, she could understand fluently.

The shouts meant that either Sherlock had found a case which interested him, he, John, and/or Mary were having a row, or the consulting detective wanted tea. The gunshots meant that he was bored, and usually she ended up storming up the stairs and shouting at him to stop blowing holes in her walls. The groans also meant that he was bored, and was moaning for someone, anyone, to send him a real case, please. The thumps were him experimenting with whatever body parts the pathologist at Bart’s had let him smuggle out of the morgue. The muffled screaming was John and/or Mary trying to handle their frustration with the most childish man in all of London in a healthy way. The pacing footsteps meant that Sherlock was close to finishing up a case. He seemed to think better once his legs were slapping against the floor in a frankly quite irritating rhythm. The violin – well, that was something which even Mrs. Hudson didn’t pretend to understand. It could mean that he was bored, it could mean that he was thinking, it could mean that he was frustrated… who knew what went on in that funny old head of his?

 

All in all, Martha felt that she had had built up a fairly good block against the noises issuing from the detective’s flat which prevented her from marching up the stairs and giving him a piece of her mind. This particular day, however, the usual thumps and gunshots (which, to Mrs. Hudson, were as quiet as it was ever going to get) were absent, and were replaced by an odd sound which Martha couldn’t place. It sounded almost as if Sherlock were thrashing about on the sofa, losing his balance, and falling onto the floor. There’d be some muffled curses, and then the noises would repeat.

It was on the thirty-fifth thud that Martha lost her patience.

Storming up the stairs, she decided that if he was going to insist on changing up his annoying sounds, she had a right to be angry.

‘Sherlock, what the-’

THUD!

He was flopping around on and then falling off of the sofa. The sound of the impact and the ‘oof!’ that Sherlock let out softened Mrs. Hudson’s tender heart somewhat, and instead of the scathing ‘What the heck do you think you’re doing?’ she’d prepared she ended up saying, ‘Ooh, are you all right, dearie?’

Sherlock stood up, apparently trying to look dignified, which must have been difficult since he was only wrapped in his sheet.

‘Nothing of consequence, Mrs. Hudson,’ he said, and Martha nodded.

‘That’s what I thought. Well, then, I’ll let you get back to it.’

She was almost out the door when Sherlock’s plaintive voice reached her ears.

‘Mrs. Hudson?’ 

Against her will (she was still pretty ticked off, after all) she turned around and managed not to look like she wanted to throttle him (which she sometimes did).

‘Yes, Sherlock?’

He flopped back down on the sofa again, and Martha took the chair across from him.

‘I…’ he began, and then stopped. Martha was just a little surprised by this uncharacteristic monosyllabic statement, and felt concern rise up in the back of her mind.

‘Are you all right, dear?’ she asked, reaching over to place a hand against his forehead.

‘What? Yes! I’m fine!’ He swatted at her hand, and Martha sat back with a sigh of relief. He wasn’t too warm. Either he was trying to think something through and wanted an audience (and if that was what he’d gotten her all worked up for, she’d turn him out on the streets – in that darn sheet, no less, so help her!) or he was genuinely worried about something.

‘What do you need, Sherlock?’ she asked, trying to keep the remaining shreds of her patience from falling apart.

‘Does Molly Hooper look tired to you?’

Martha was suddenly very glad for her chair.

‘Molly… Molly Hooper? The pathologist at Bart’s?’

Sherlock nodded, looking impatient.

‘Tired?’

Sherlock nodded again, this time with a huff. Martha tried to focus on what Molly had looked like the last time she’d seen her, but all that she could think about was the fact that Sherlock had just asked her about a girl. Never mind that it wasn’t involved with romance. That didn’t really matter. What did matter was that Sherlock had noticed something about a human being that was not connected to a case. Unless…

‘Is this for a case?’

‘What? No! Mrs. Hudson, if you are just going to ask silly questions, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave. My patience is wearing thin-’

‘It’s just that you’ve never cared if anyone was tired, Sherlock. John’s been nearly dead on his feet and you’ve never even winced.’

Sherlock shook his head, sitting up straighter and looking so earnest that Martha thought he looked quite noble, even in his ridiculous sheet.

‘It’s not that kind of tired. She’s exhausted, Mrs. Hudson.’ He stood up and started his infernal pacing. ‘Her eyes always had some sort of… something. Were it not for the risk of sounding extremely cliché, I’d say they sparkled. The fact that she neither smiles nor laughs very often is rather unsettling, especially as she used to do both a significant portion of the time. She’s lost weight, and her hair doesn’t swish anymore, both of which suggest that she’s not eating well. And there are dark circles under her eyes, which practically scream that she’s not sleeping. All of these lead me to the conclusion that she’s depressed, but asking you that right away would have caused you to panic in concern for my mental welfare and health. Which is very nearly what happened as it was. Anyway, I need a second opinion and John’s away. So, does Molly Hooper look tired to you?’

Martha tried to digest what she had just heard. She’d need to do that before she actually answered the question. 

Starting from the beginning would be a good idea, she supposed.

Molly Hooper. Her Molly Hooper, the one she invited over for tea at least once a week and the one who’d been smitten with Sherlock for years on end. Sherlock thought she looked depressed. And, bless her, she probably was. Martha hadn’t seen her in ages, but she’d looked a little pale the last time she had seen her, and, knowing Molly, that meant that something was wrong. The dear tried so hard not to show it whenever something was bothering her, but she couldn’t ever seem to get past Sherlock. But then, could anyone?

‘I… haven’t seen her in a while. Do you… have you talked to her?’

Sherlock looked at her like she was out of her wits.

‘No. What good would that do? This is Molly. She doesn’t talk about it when something’s wrong.’

Martha nodded slowly.

‘Sherlock, why did you notice this, and what does this have to do with you flopping around like a beached whale?’

‘Mrs. Hudson, I hardly think that a whale would be-’

‘Just answer the question, please, Sherlock,’ Martha said, rubbing her temple.

‘I… mightpossiblybeconcerned,’ Sherlock said in one breath, sounding like he’d rather be a beached whale than admit it to anyone. Mrs. Hudson tried not to squeal. Sherlock apparently noticed her excitement and hurriedly said, ‘she’s the only pathologist who will actually talk to Mike Stamford about getting me some samples for experiments. I’ve always been able to persuade her. Who will do it if she doesn’t?’

Martha nodded.

‘I see. Sherlock, you’ll have to talk to her. She’s the only one who can tell you if she really is depressed and how to help her if it’s true.’

‘Talk to her?’ Mrs. Hudson almost laughed at the expression on Sherlock’s face.

‘Oh, come, Sherlock. It’s not that hard. You just say words. Goodness knows that it comes easily enough to you at all the wrong times. Is it that hard to do it right for once?’

Sherlock just looked at her, before picking up the (probably quite tepid by now) cup of tea and taking a sip. Martha knew she wasn’t going to get anything else out of him for goodness knew how long, so she slipped out of the flat and back downstairs.

 

Sherlock paced up and down the length of his flat, ignoring it when Mrs. Hudson came up to yell at him. He needed to think. 

He was fairly sure there was something wrong with Molly, and that was bad. An unhappy Molly meant that he was snapped at, denied specimens, and banned from looking at any corpses unless Lestrade was with him. And, if he was completely and totally honest with himself, he didn’t like it when Molly was upset. It bothered him, gave him an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach, somehow – and, if he was totally honest, it always sort of upset him, too.

He could just stay at home and let Molly deal with it on her own, but that would mean an unspecified amount of time with no specimens, no corpses, and no small amount of discomfort, both physical and mental.

But he didn’t want to approach her simply for the sake of approaching her. 

Then make something up, Sherlock, Mycroft’s voice sounded in his head.

Ah.

His eyes set open and, with a feeling of purpose, Sherlock Holmes set off for St. Bart's morgue.

 

Molly was doing up some paperwork when he walked in.

‘Go away, Sherlock,’ she said without even looking up. Sherlock frowned, the excuse he’d carefully formulated flying out of his Mind Palace before he could catch it. 

‘But-’ he began to protest.

‘No buts,’ Molly said. ‘I’m not in the mood to deal with you. Go. Away.’

Sherlock frowned harder.

‘But that’s why I’m here,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you.’

Molly froze.

‘Talk to me?’ she said, sounding confused and tired. ‘Why?’

‘Do I need a reason to talk to an old friend?’ Sherlock asked in what he hoped was an endearing tone. Molly rubbed her forehead.

‘What do you want, Sherlock?’ she grumbled. ‘I’m assuming it’s something big.’

Sherlock resisted the urge to scream.

‘Why are you being so ridiculous?’ he asked in his I’m-so-tired-of-this-nonsense voice. Her eyebrows shot up.

‘I’m being ridiculous? I’m not the one who spent years flattering a smitten pathologist just to get into the morgue! I didn’t pretend to be dead and break my friends’ hearts! I’m not a stuck-up, selfish, arrogant git who never mentioned to the smitten pathologist that one of the recent autopsies she’s performed was on a man that he had killed and that he was almost exiled! Who’s the ridiculous one here, Sherlock Holmes?’

Sherlock winced and closed his eyes. In hindsight, he probably should have let her know about the exile. Opening his eyes, he gave her what he hoped was a winning smile and opened his mouth to make an excuse, but she was too fast for him and kept talking.

‘I knew what you were doing, Sherlock. All this time… “Your hair suits you! You look well!”’ she deepened her voice, trying to mimic his baritone. Sherlock almost grinned at how pathetically she was failing, but somehow kept his peace and neither said nor did anything besides watching her start pacing the floor, waving her hands around for emphasis. ‘I knew what you were doing. But that part of me that wanted just a little approval, no matter where it came from, wouldn’t let me… and the only reason you said that you wanted to talk to me just now was to make me swoon and let you have whatever it is you want. And it probably would have worked. Oh, goodness, I’m so pitiful. But I thought… I thought that maybe, just maybe, we were becoming friends. I mean, I did risk my job for you. But no, of course it didn’t matter, because you’re Sherlock Holmes and you don’t care what people suffer if it makes life easier for you. There are only five people in the world who you told the truth to, about what happened that night at Magnussen’s. That’s your list of people you care about, Sherlock, and I’m not on it, so go away and leave me alone!’

Her voice broke on the last word, and she turned away hastily. Sherlock felt a little startled.

Oh.

So that’s what had been wrong. Someone (most likely Mary, the traitoress) had told Molly about Sherlock’s almost-exile and she’d been offended and hurt that he hadn’t told her when it happened. And now she was mad at him.

The discomfort in his stomach escalated to pain.

‘Molly,’ he said, ‘it was to protect you.’ Molly scoffed and rolled her eyes. ‘I’m serious!’ he insisted. ‘If you… didn’t know, I thought it would make it easier. You’d never know what happened. Mary was to tell you that I’d moved away if I never returned.’ He saw her face pale when he said “never returned,” and he wondered what he’d done wrong. ‘It wasn’t to hurt you. You don’t need that. You’ve done more than enough for me in the time I’ve known you… far too much. You deserve happiness. And if I had to leave… you see why I did it, don’t you?’ he could hear the pleading in his own voice and it irritated him. ‘Be reasonable, Molly.’

Molly’s shoulders sagged, and Sherlock suddenly felt guilty.

Why do I feel guilty? This has never bothered… oh. OH.

Suddenly it all fell into place. The frustration, the inability to focus, the pain…

I love Molly. 

No. that couldn’t be right. He was Sherlock Holmes. He didn’t do feelings – and even if he did, he’d probably skip love. 

But… would he? Would he really? He should just walk out of Molly’s life and pretend that she’d never existed. But could he? And did he want to walk out of her life and pretend that she’d never existed?

No. He loved her. She was Molly and he loved her.

I love her.

He looked at Molly again, and even though he could only see the back of her head, she looked breathtakingly beautiful. He closed the distance between them and whirled her around to face him. It only took a moment for her to start struggling.

‘Let me go! Sherlock!’

Sherlock studied her, this time taking in each detail like it was absolutely crucial for a case. 

‘What are you doing? Let me go!’

She was beautiful. Her eyes and hair and skin and lips… he felt his heartbeat quicken and he leaned down without even thinking about it.

‘Sherlock! What are you doing? Let me – mmph!’

It was strange, Sherlock mused some time later. All the anger with which Molly had been snapping at him to let her go had been completely gone when he’d finally pulled his lips from hers. They’d both been breathing heavily, and her pupils had dilated till her eyes looked nearly black. Her pulse was throbbing wildly in her throat, and he knew that his was doing the same. Somehow, during their kiss her hands had slid into his hair and his had dropped to her waist and pulled her even closer to him.

He’d expected her to slap him or scream at him or do something of the sort. She hadn’t. Her mouth had slowly curved into a smile and she’d leaned her head against his chest.

‘Oh, Sherlock Holmes,’ she’d whispered, ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to say how very much I love you.’

He’d pressed his lips to the top of her head.

‘And I love you, Molly Hooper.’

 

Martha Hudson never found out what, exactly, had prompted the whirlwind engagement and marriage of Sherlock and Molly Holmes. All she knew was that, as time passed, she’d added Molly’s soft footsteps and sweet voice and the sounds of meals being made and raised voices followed by softer ones to her listening vocabulary. 

She smiled.

The sounds of love were very good additions to the language of noises.


End file.
